


the arms of someone else

by sleepyMoritz (Catherss)



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bottom Matt Murdock, Character Death Fix, Heartache, M/M, Post Season 3, Rebound Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 19:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16435178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherss/pseuds/sleepyMoritz
Summary: It surprises him and it doesn't, but after all of it, Seema leaves him, taking Sami with her. Sometimes, after meetings or updates, Matt asks if he wants to join the three of them when Nelson, Murdock & Page go out and get drunk.But tonight is different. Matt sends him a text, asking if he can come round, and it sounds kind of urgent. Ray's already halfway through the beers he planned to have tonight and he'd rather be miserable with company, so an hour later he’s knocking on the door to 6A.





	the arms of someone else

**Author's Note:**

> [handwaves away character death incredibly important for the plot of the source material]
> 
> Sometimes you write things because you're worried no one else will. I've only watched DDS3 once in a mad binge so honestly, I don't remember a lot of details and probably got some stuff wrong.
> 
> Title from TV Girl's 'Hate Yourself'. I almost called this 'hate yourself', but figured that might be a bit too on the nose lol. Many thanks to Pogopop for beta reading, and the encouragement of the Hat DD server! Love you guys!

It surprises him and it doesn't, but after all of it, Seema leaves him, taking Sami with her. Ray's life is immeasurably more empty because of it, and though he's furious, a small part of him agrees and understands - after what happened, and what's about to come, his side has become a dangerous place to be. He loves the two of them more than life and if they were hurt, he-- well. While he refuses to think about it during the day, at night, his mind supplies him with scenario after scenario that leaves him waking up in sweats. In one, the mercs thwarted by Murdock find his family in the bathtub and shoot them point blank. In another, Fisk's men hunt them down and torture them.

So, yeah. Best they go, really. He'd rather they were apart and safe than satisfy his selfish desire for his family.

Though he's testified, Nelson, Murdock, & Page assure him that his work isn't over. He needs to be cross-examined, he needs to be sentenced. Five years, they say. It seems tiny compared to everything else, but they think he's still got a few more months of relative freedom whilst the court scrabbles to figure out what to do with him. His family pay his bail, so he's as free as a man with a deadline can be. Luckily, the three of them are kind people. They see his hurt (he sure as hell feels like he's wearing it on his sleeve), and he thinks Matt knows that he drinks by himself these days. Sometimes, after meetings or updates, Matt asks if he wants to join them all when they go out and get drunk. They take him to a shithole called Josie's that they all love. Ray doesn't get it. It isn't that nice and it isn't that cheap, but he guesses it's just-- their place. The place where it started. So he never suggests anywhere else, even when Matt pushes him to. "It's fine," he says. "I don't really know this part of town anyway."

But tonight is different. Matt sends him a text, asking if he can come round, and it sounds kind of urgent. Ray's already halfway through the beers he planned to have tonight and he'd rather be miserable with company, so an hour later he’s knocking on the door to 6A. Matt's voice calls, "It's open!"

Ray pushes in. It looks totally different by night, compared to that time he searched it, but somehow still looks just as unlived in. An otherworldly glow fills the room from the billboard outside, and on the couch is the man himself, shirtless with a tin in front of him. He's wearing these baggy trousers, in style not unlike Ray’s own FBI raid uniform, but in black. They're tucked into heavy boots that lace up past his ankles.

"Matt? You alright?" he calls back.

"How are you with stitches?" Matt asks. He shifts to show his back. "I have a cut."

Ray squints. There's a bit of a glistening from the blood, but he can barely make it out. He thinks that maybe he should be more worried that his lawyer is bleeding out in the dark, but at the same time, he doesn't have the energy to mother someone right now. From what he can tell, Matt gets it enough off Foggy anyway. "It's a bit dark in here."

Matt twists back round. "Oh. Shit. Sorry. The overhead light switch is by the door, but there's a lamp on the cabinet."

Ray goes to turn on both the lights, toeing his shoes off since it seems he’s going to be here a while. He hasn't done stitches in-- forever, really. He got trained how to do them, but he's never actually needed to make good on that. But, last year, Sami hurt himself whilst out skateboarding and had to get a couple in his hairline at the hospital, so at least he had a bit of a refresher. He tells Matt as much as he pads back to the couch, but he doesn't tell Matt what nightmare material that event had been. Sami's face drenched in sticky blood, since head wounds always do bleed more. Of course, Sami was barely bothered, not even crying until he caught his reflection in a window. "I'm also a bit tipsy."

"That's fine," Matt says, a sharp grin up at him. "Your hands will be steadier."

"Hah. We'll see," Ray says. "I guess you should probably lay on your stomach."

Matt shifts to do as he's told, tucking one arm under his head to support it. The glow from the windows catches over his shoulders, only just visible among the warm tungsten light from the ceiling and lamp. More incredible is the sheer amount of scars marring his skin - some pink, some white, some coloured by patches of bruising. Next to the tin is a box of latex gloves, and the tin itself is full to the brim with everything he'd need to do this. He thinks, for an absurd moment - who on earth owns this kind of stuff? Of course, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen would. He goes to wash his hands, then pulls up one of the table chairs up to the couch and snaps on some gloves.

"Thank you for doing this," Matt mutters. "And if you could-- not tell Foggy? I'd really appreciate it."

"He doesn't know?"

"He asked that I didn't go out for a while." Matt shifts his head on his forearm, his eyes closing. Matt does that sometimes, just closes his eyes. It took a little bit of getting used to, that just because his eyes weren't open, didn't mean he wasn't listening attentively. "I did mean to stop. I did mean to, but then it didn't happen like that," he says softly. It's an odd moment of vulnerability, and it reminds Ray in a strange way of times when Sami would out of the blue casually mention something with the hope that his parents would inquire further. So Ray inquires further.

"What happened, then?" Ray picks up some swabs and begins cleaning the area. It's still oozing blood, but it's also way past starting to coagulate, and he hopes that it's still okay to suture. He's glad he's got a stomach for this. He has to, in his line of work.

"Someone needed help. My help. But I'm still healing, and my hip-- it's still not right. Caught me off guard. Muscle memory is a hell of a thing," he says, the smile obvious in his voice even if Ray can't see it. "Can't fight like I used to, I guess."

"What I saw was pretty incredible."

"Yeah. Should've seen me at my peak. I used to be able to kick above my head like it was nothing. Some days now it hurts just to knee people in the stomach. I hate it," he finishes in a whisper. Matt inhales sharply and changes the subject, as if sensing that the next question would be elaborate on that. "And, anyway, I can't ask Karen to do this - stitches - and obviously I'm trying not to piss Foggy off. I owe him that much. Maggie-- she's busy with the kids she's actually supposed to be looking after. I don't know many people anymore."

"So I'm the last resort?"

Ray's mostly joking, because he knows he barely knows Matt in comparison to the other handful of people in his life, but his reply is sharp, bitten. Pulled out of him. "No. The last resort is the emergency room. I trust you to do this right."

Ray swallows, then carries on with what he's doing. "Maybe you should go make some more friends."

"I have enough," Matt says quietly. He probably means it, too. Ray comes from a large family that only doubled when he married Seema. He can't imagine a life as isolated as Matt's; though he's lost his wife and child, he's still got his siblings, his cousins, even if many of them are an ocean away. He should go visit home, he thinks, get away for awhile - he wasn't actually born in India, but his family always used to make the journey back to Gurgaon every few years, staying with his mother's sister and taking day trips into the capital. He hasn't been in forever, since the money problems started. Then he remembers that he can't leave the country because he's on parole, and it sinks into his chest like mud in water. Five years, possibly less with good behaviour. Maybe he could even take Sami since he'll be older by then, encourage him to take learning Hindi seriously. It's a tiny price to pay for the blood on his hands.

"Have you taken any painkillers?"

"No. I had some tea, though," Matt says, like that's a good replacement. Ray can picture it, too, Matt sat in his apartment, sipping tea whilst he bleeds through his shirt and tries to figure out if he needs stitches or not.

"This is going to hurt, then," Ray warns.

Matt snorts. "Yeah. I know."

Ray throws the swabs onto the table - he'll clean them up later - and threads the needle. The first push of it through Matt's skin makes both of them hiss. The next has Matt scrunching up his face and grasping the cushion tightly. The one after, Matt's free hand comes up in a wild motion, making the muscles in his back shift and the stitches pull. He groans.

"One more," Ray murmurs. The stitches aren't very neat, and he wonders if it'll scar. Probably. "Sorry."

"It's okay. Thank you," Matt adds.

Once the last one is in, Ray swabs the freshly bleeding cut again, then covers it in gauze. He tidies everything away whilst Matt just lies there, eyes squeezed shut. It's odd, in some ways, but Ray's just happy to have somewhere to be. God, he misses work. Being jobless is boring as hell.

"There's beers in the fridge," Matt says. "Help yourself."

Ray does so, and brings one over for Matt who still hasn't moved. "Feeling alright?"

"Little bit woozy," he says. Gingerly, he pushes himself up, as if sensing Ray's concern. "God. I'm usually fine with pain, too."

"Well, you've had some time off," Ray says. "How often did you used to go out-- before?" He remembers hearing stories, especially from coworkers who knew somebody in the police department. He followed it with some interest, actually, the vigilantes and the superheroes and all of that, but seeing Matt grunt in pain takes the glamour out of it all. The media never really focused often on how often they must've gotten hurt, only of their labour. It'd certainly never really occurred to him. Most of the guys who went out and did this kind of thing were more resilient or healed faster than the normal human or were rich enough to fashion themselves something protective, but Matt really was just a _guy_.

"Every night I could," Matt says. "There's always someone who needs help."

"That sounds like a lot to take on," Ray says as he sits on the couch next to Matt. He flicks the lid off the bottles with the opener on his keys.

"Well, I can't imagine being a cop."

"Hey, I wasn't a cop. I was a Special Agent." Ray says it sternly, then snorts softly. Matt laughs too.

"Oh, sorry," he says unapologetically.

"It's fine. Just don't do it again."

Matt gives him a smile, winsome and challenging. His eyebrows raise. "Yeah? Or what?"

Ray stops. It's like a punch through his head, through his gut. Matt's _flirting_. He still hasn't put his shirt on, either, and his tilted his head slightly, up and to the side. Listening. It's put Ray on the spot. "I didn't think that far ahead," he replies lamely. Though he's surprised, the idea doesn't bother him. Now it's out in the open, he even likes it.

Then the air is filled with an awkward tension. Ray picks up his bottle and takes a sip. "Sorry," Matt says abruptly. He makes an aborted motion, though he's reaching out for something that isn't there. "God, sorry. I shouldn't-- Um. I haven't done this in a while."

"No, no." Ray coughs awkwardly. "It's fine. I don't-- I don't mind."

"I-- I sometimes get ahead of myself. My senses--"

"Oh, god," Ray says, stomach dropping. "You can tell, can't you? When someone's..."

"Yeah. Well, sometimes. I get hints, as much as a sighted person." Hints? Now Ray's paranoid he's been broadcasting something, but then for Matt to even consider bringing it up, surely he must've. Matt stands and bends down gingerly to pick up the discarded t-shirt on the table. Though it's black, Ray can still see the scabbed, dried blood around a gash in the fabric. "But I know my way is a little more creepy than suggestive eye contact."

"Must make it easier, though. With Seema, she was basically in my lap before I got it into my head that she liked me." He then sighs, sharply. "Sorry. I shouldn't bring up my ex."

"It's okay." Matt tries to then put the shirt on, but then once his arms are above his head, his eyes widen and he stands, locked but shifting on his feet. "Ah, shit," he breathes.

Ray gets up too, and gently extracts the caught t-shirt from Matt's arms, putting a steadying hand on his bicep. Matt leans into it slightly, and then looks up at Ray. They're almost perfectly the same height, but Ray's maybe an inch taller. Matt's head swivels again, as though he's nosing into the air. "I said I didn't mind," Ray breathes. It's true. He doesn't. Matt's handsome, attractive. He misses touching someone, and though it's a monumentally stupid idea to sleep with his lawyer and friend, well-- he's tipsy and Matt looks incredible with his shirt off and he knows damn well what he’s offering. He still thinks, _this is a betrayal to Seema_ and then amends the notion: _Seema doesn't want you anymore_.

"I'm not-- I don't want--" Matt starts. He's unusually caught up, tripping over his words. Ray sees his stomach flex as he sucks in a breath. "I'm not inviting you to dinner here, Rahul."

"I know," Ray replies, then kisses him.

Matt's a hungry kisser, different from Seema in a way hard to quantify, but the physical sensation differences are immediately obvious - the stubble on Matt's face scratches at his lips, and the shape of his body is solid where hers was soft. Matt's hands go to Ray's hips, pulling him forward, and shit, he'd forgotten that about fucking guys, too. How quickly they got to the point.

Matt's fingers hook under his t-shirt and he nudges to pull it up, but only gets so far before Ray realises he's going to have to take over unless he wants Matt to pull his stitches for real this time. Once it's off and on the floor, Matt licks down his neck to where the tendons sink under his breastbone, over his pecs, Ray's hand coming to thread in his hair. "God," he breathes.

"Bedroom?" Matt says, punctuating it with a bite to his earlobe.

He nods, and they stumble over, kissing along the way, Matt leading as though Ray wouldn't know where his bed was. The bed kicks out the back of Ray's knees and he collapses back on it, running his hands up Matt's thighs and ass. Matt puts a knee on the mattress like he's going to straddle him but instead sinks to the ground, mouthing Ray's skin all the way down. He works Ray's belt undone and palms his tented boxers. The pressure makes him exhale, a sharp hiss through his teeth.

Matt grins and pulls his boxers down past his knees, kissing along the inside of his thighs. Ray groans impatiently, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Matt just breathes another laugh and takes his cock into his mouth. It's incredible, the heat and pressure and pleasure making him groan, flex, tense. All too soon Matt pulls away, a hand still wrapped around Ray's cock and the other going to palm over his cargo pants for a moment. He hasn't even taken off his boots yet. "Want you to fuck me," he breathes, all desperate, with his throat a little rough.

"Yeah?" Ray's kind of surprised, though he hopes his tone doesn't betray that - he should know by now not to try and guess what men want from other men and it's all pretty much bullshit anyway, but-- this is _Daredevil_ , the guy who goes out beating people up in a costume. Then again, it's also Matt Murdock, and though he knows full well they're the same person, they're really kind of not.

Matt's tone shifts to become slightly more challenging. "Yeah. Lube and condoms are in the drawer."

Ray knows when not to argue. He reaches into the bedside table and digs out lube, then puts the condoms on the side for later. He suddenly realises that this'll be the first time having sex with protection in years, since Seema had traumatic birth complications and they’d decided he might as well get a vasectomy when she promised him she was _never_ doing that again. Matt finally takes off his boots, then slips his pants and underwear down in one go, not bothering to give any kind of a show. Maybe it's the kind of thing that Matt wouldn't think of, but lines of his body are beautifully harsh in the neon light of the billboard anyway. He crouches at the foot of the bed, one knee planted in the mattress, jerking himself off half-absentmindedly. Ray gets the impression that it isn't meant to be hot or seductive, but makes his head swim with desire.

Matt holds out his spare hand. "Gimme."

"No. I want to do it."

Matt shrugs and shuffles up. He makes half a motion to ease down onto his back, but then winces and turns himself so he's prone.

"I've got deja vu," Ray says, thinking about the stitches he just did.

"I like this better," Matt replies, hitching his legs so they're marginally wider.

The lube bottle has a pump, so Ray gets some onto his hand and lets it warm up a little, kissing down Matt's spine with his legs straddling one of Matt's thighs. His mouth reaches a stretched out bump, and he pauses as it takes him a moment realise that it's a scar. He kisses it - wonders if that's too much for a one night stand - and runs his slick fingers down to distract from that. Matt props himself up onto his elbows so they can kiss open mouthed while Ray works Matt up to a couple of fingers, but he’s clearly impatient. Matt’s squirming and panting, reaching behind him to catch Ray's wrist with unerring accuracy.

"Just--" he breathes, his mouth giving up on the word before he's reached the end of it. " _C'mon_."

"Little bit longer--"

"No," Matt says firmly. "No. Now. _C'mon_."

He had had half a thought that maybe this wouldn't go so fast, that he'd have time to catch his breath and just get used to the body of another person, but it isn't going that way. So he rolls on the condom, wraps his fingers around the crease between Matt's thighs and the stretch of skin before his belly, and pulls his hips up slightly. His back is a delicious curve, legs spread nicely for Ray, who hunches forward to lick at Matt's ear as he slowly eases in.

Both of their breaths stop, then Ray lets out the air in his lungs hot over Matt's skin. He forgets it all, suddenly, now he's inside another person - all his wallowing heartache that pisses him off even though he knows he's allowed it, allowed grief and hurt. All there is is the warmth under him, around him-- skin and heat and moans. God, he's missed this.

It quickly becomes more urgent. Though Matt starts out with his hips pushed upwards, he quickly loses purchase and ending up pretty much flat against the bed. Ray shifts, using one knee to nudge Matt to push his leg wider, and then he's essentially pinned, taking it with his hand flung back on Ray's hips, thigh, ass. Whatever he can grab. Ray's got his nose buried where Matt's hair curls up to his ears and neck, and the smell of his sweat is intoxicating. Both of them are breathing curses, Ray slipping into Hindi once or twice as the languages get muddled in his head.

Matt begins a litany of encouragements for Ray to do it harder, faster, however he wants it, then those break down into half-formed thoughts. "I'm gonna, I'm gonna--"

"I know, I know--"

"God, God, don't stop--"

He keeps up a steady pace, one that seems to make Matt's mind melt. It's taking him on a trip too, and he's so damn close, but he wants Matt to finish first. Matt tries again to push up properly onto hands and knees, his tricep drawing almost level with his back as he reaches down to touch himself. Then, he's absolutely still, the moans that had been steadily coming up easy out his throat clenched between his teeth. Ray flattens himself over Matt's back, rocking his hips, running a hand down his side and stomach and sweat-slick chest. Matt's caught breath comes out in a vocal rush with a full-body shudder.

A beat. Then, Matt pushes back. It's all the permission he needs to carry on, Matt again encouraging him to go as hard as he liked. It isn't long before Ray's orgasm is burning through his middle, and he pushes them both down while he rides through it. He just lies there for a moment as he comes back into himself, thigh muscles jumping, one arm wrapped around Matt's middle as they breathe. Maybe it's too much for a one night stand. Matt doesn't seem to mind, until he whispers, "I gotta go clean up."

Ray kisses his shoulder and pulls out gently, tying the condom and clambering off the bed. Matt walks gingerly to the bathroom and Ray pauses to catch his breath for a few minutes, head tilted up to the ceiling and mind vacantly blank. The sweat cooling on his chest and back makes him shiver now that he’s stopped moving, and his skin feels tacky with it, hands sticky with dried lube. A little while later, Matt limps back in, and Ray goes to use the toilet and get rid of the condom.

Afterwards, he’s hovering in the doorway, unsure if he should just put his clothes on and leave. Matt's putting on some underwear, his back to Ray. He's bled through his gauze, and Ray feels _wrong_ , in a vague way. Matt's being quiet, too. He's not always joking or being light hearted, but whenever he's around Foggy and Karen there's usually this veneer of _don't-worry-about-me_ charm that Ray immediately recognises as fake. Maybe this - the quietness - is Matt without the shields. But even that doesn't feel right. Ray's been with the FBI long enough to know that people are rarely so simple as two interchangeable masks, and he thinks that Matt might be one of the most complicated people he's ever known.

"C'mere," Matt says lowly as he starts to clamber into bed without turning his face to Ray.

Ray pads over, finds his underwear on the ground, and gets into bed. Matt shuffles up back into him so they're pressed together, pulling Ray's arm over his side so he tucks it under Matt's bicep. They both settle in, legs tangling, and it hits Ray like a tonne of bricks that he really shouldn't have done this - that he really wasn't ready. He feels the very start of tears burn in his eyes that he tries to blink down (God, he's not going to cry after sex, what a fucking cliche), aware that Matt can probably sense it somehow. He's not sure why he thought any of this would make him feel better. His heart is aching constantly, and having rebound sex with a friend isn't going to make it go away.

"You okay?" Matt asks quietly.

"Yeah. I'm good," he says, because he can't exactly tell the guy he just fucked that he really, _really_ misses somebody else.

Matt's exhale is just a moment too prolonged, too sharp. "Yeah," he whispers. "Me too."

**Author's Note:**

> Catch me on tumblr at sleepymoritz!


End file.
